


The gold, cold blood, it covers my feet

by LiveOakWithMoss



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Battle Imagery, Blood, Brother-Sister Relationships, Casual Arafinwion Osanwe, Gen, Mild Gore, Mild Injury, Non-diplomatic Arafinwions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 14:12:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4394936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fairest and wisest can wield the sharpest blades - and do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The gold, cold blood, it covers my feet

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. I’m working on fleshing out my Arafinwions, generally - obviously, I write a LOT of Finrod, and adore him, but I both want to get into more depth with him and also explore the rest of his family. I’m doing this in a couple ways, but in the process, an image hit me so thoroughly over the head I need to do something about it. Namely: vicious bloodthirsty warrior Arafinwions. So often we see (and I write, I totally do this all the time) wise and gracious diplomat Arafinwions, and for a change, I want them scary. Finrod, ferocious in combat (see: werewolf, teeth, etc). Galadriel, terrifying in battle (see: bitch-slapping Sauron, etc). And then I needed these beautiful, golden children covered in blood and joyous in battle. And this happened.  
> 1\. Not sure what battle it is that they’d have both fought in, but I figure there were a not insignificant number of battles in the First Age they plausibly could have been at. At any rate, I freely admit this is less about canon than about me wanting to dip these beauties in gore.  
> 2\. I posted this on Tumblr a while ago and then forgot about it. Oops.

A lucky knife thrust had split the laces of his bracer, and Finrod tore it off, grimacing, to check how bad the damage was. The strip of bare skin where his sleeves had been pushed up was painted with blood, and along the area where the bracer had been cut, there was a long thin slice up his wrist. It wasn’t deep, but Finrod had seen too many orc-blade wounds to be complacent. With his good hand he wrenched a flask from an inner pocket and yanked it open with his teeth. Gasping slightly, he poured some of the clear liquid within onto his wound, which sizzled and stung. This crude cleaning done, he tore a clean strip from his cloak – one of the few areas that remained white, and not black with blood and mud – and began wrapping his forearm.

“Ingoldo!” A clear voice rang out, and he looked up to see a blazing figure wading through the mire of battle towards him. Galadriel was dressed in even lighter armor than he, gold chainmail only over her white tunic and leggings, and her bare head gleamed in the dour light. She was drenched in blood.

Finrod tied off his bandage and reached out to clasp his sister’s shoulder. “Artanis. Is any of that blood yours?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing.” She grinned, her teeth long and white, her eyes still aglow with battle. Swiftly they ran hands over each other and themselves, checking for injury, but found none besides Finrod’s arm wound. Galadriel laughed, her joy both unnerving and elating.

“So the score is in our favor, brother!” She wiped a splash of blood from her breast and smeared it beneath her eyes like war paint, so that her eyes glowed even more fey. “Rejoice!”

He laughed at her, as she adorned him similarly, so their faces displayed equally their grisly triumph, and his eyes shone beneath his high helm. “You enjoy this far too much, o my savage sister.”

“And you do not?”

Finrod grinned too, and wrapped a gauntleted hand around the hilt of his sword. “I would never claim such a thing.”

“No, because Eru forbid fair and gracious Findaráto be revealed as the bloodthirsty demon he is.”

“It would be disastrous for my diplomatic work.”

“Oh, yes, indeed.” Galadriel hummed and swung her leg, sending an orc helm flying. Finrod watched her booted foot, remembering her bare-legged and with naked, bloody feet, screaming defiance on the shores of Alqualondë.

Galadriel gazed at the sky.  _I promised father I would not wade into battle barefoot again._

Finrod looked pointedly at her bare head.  _And yet you are asking to be scalped, going helmetless like that._

_He said nothing about helmets._

_He probably assumed such basic commonsense needed no reminders._

Galadriel pinched Finrod’s cheek with gloved fingers, leaving another smear of blood. “No one gets close enough to me for that to be a true threat.”

“And what of arrows, is thy hard skull as impervious to them as dragon scale?”

“I have good reflexes.”

“You are far more arrogant and proud than any would guess,” Finrod said, bending forward to tug her hair as his own golden braid slipped over his shoulder. “I know your mind. You wordlessly boast your prowess by going without true armor."

“A child of Arafinwë proud? Never.” Galadriel spun her spear carelessly. “Guilty of hubris? Perhaps.”

Finrod raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement, and then drew his sword. “Well, what are you waiting for?” He tossed his gore clotted braid over his shoulder and gave Galadriel the beautiful, serene smile of a diplomat. “Shall we go looking for survivors?”

“Aye.” Galadriel bared her teeth and drew a lethally sharp knife from her belt. “Onward.”

The blood-sun sank over the forsaken battlefield, where the moans and screams of the dying were broken only by the occasional wild battle cry, and the flash of long, white blades. And the avenging spirits, the fair and fey children of the House of Arafinwë, plied their deadly mercy, and sang their glory to the skies. 


End file.
